Vogue August 2016

TONNE Goodman Being at Louse Point in Springs, where the boat is anchored, waiting to take us out to fish for dinner. SOKO All I want to do is focus on music, lock myself up in the studio, and get lost in my little bubble. Wendi MURDOCH I’m hoping to go to Burning Man. JESSE Eisenberg I’m looking forward to finally finishing the play I’ve been working on for three years and also overcoming the withdrawal from finishing the play I’ve been working on for three years. Valerie STEIKER Antiquing in Frenchtown. Taylor ANTRIM Biking up Mont Ventoux. IRINA Shayk I can’t wait to get away to some chill place with no people around. My favorite is the Maldives—just white sand and blue water. MARK Guiducci Visiting Amalfi’s Li Galli…

Bravery can oftentimes be measured by the act of taking a first step. That’s certainly true of three extraordinary women who play leading roles in our August issue—women who haven’t so much stepped as bounded forward with huge leaps of faith. Our cover girl, Gigi Hadid, sharing the spotlight with world-record-holding decathlete Ashton Eaton (“Aiming High,” page 119), might not seem at first glance to define bravery, but when she sternly repudiated the vicious online sniping about her body last year she stood up not only for herself but for the many, many young women who don’t live up to some people’s ridiculous and extremely narrow—literally—ideal of a fashionable physique. We think Gigi is absolutely stunning and was far and away the very best person to star in an issue…

I never traveled as a child. My mother had a rule—she had many, actually, like pick one hairdo and stick to it—but another was, vacations are for grown-ups. Except for being shipped by train from Los Angeles to a camp in Arizona every August where I became proficient in archery, I barely left home until I went to college. I eventually ended up in New York City, graduating from Barnard after two years at Connecticut College. On my way to Conn College the first time, my suitcase containing everything I owned fell off the New Haven Railroad train and was picked up by a train going in the other direction and was returned to me. In spite of that auspicious sign that leaving home, that taking trips, will in the…

I didn’t want to be in Providence in January of 1980. I had been living in Santa Cruz, California, where the winters were sunny and people the same. Brown University, with its old brick buildings in a grim industrial city, seemed like prison in comparison. But I was willing to serve my time. I didn’t know a soul and rented an apartment far from campus. My second Saturday night I showed up at a shingled house for a transfer-student party. It was stuffy and smoky, and I felt invisible. I was about to leave when I came upon a floridcheeked girl with corn-silk hair at the front door. She looked like Alice in a room she had magically outgrown. Her nose and mouth were in the mail slot. “What are…

Exactly who are the culprits who kick-started the New Wave–y, Dynasty-tastic, monstershouldered vibe now strutting its utterly vulgar stuff around fashion? Offenders line up, please. I’d like to kiss you. There is nothing quite as weird as the megawatt electric shock of seeing the eighties being fed back into the system—at least not if you’re old enough to still have the horrors about the supposed crimes against taste committed in that decade. I ought to be one of them, having done power shoulders, gold doorknocker earrings, and white cone-heeled Maud Frizon lookalike pumps with the rest of the Voguettes back in the day. Quelle horreur, then, to witness Hedi Slimane going out with an eighties flashback to giant shoulders, clingy minis, puffball skirts, and glitzy bows at Saint Laurent? There…

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